


The Back of Your Mouth

by FoxCollector



Category: Heavy Rain
Genre: ARI and Triptocaine make for a bad Friday night, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, I mean you know they're both working the case so..., Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Hand Jobs, Shameless Smut, That's what I'm here for, They're not friends - Freeform, Withdrawal, almost forgot what that was called, but it is consensual, idk if this should count as dubious consent but I will tag just in case, kind of, mostly because Norman is in a bad place, they're in the police station so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxCollector/pseuds/FoxCollector
Summary: This is the last thing he needs right now. And it’s the second time his withdrawal has hit in front of someone else.And sure, while Blake is much less likely to take advantage of the situation to try and kill him the way Mad Jack had, this is still bad for professional, and even more so, personal reasons.Or, Norman's withdrawal hits at a less than optimal time, but it doesn't turn out all bad.
Relationships: Carter Blake/Norman Jayden
Comments: 2
Kudos: 74





	The Back of Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting as a WIP for like... a year, and I finally managed to finish it and edit it into something almost nice.
> 
> I love this game, and I have no shame. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

Norman’s hands are shaking. He knows it, and he can’t stop it, and that really only makes him feel worse. It’s some combination of stress and withdrawal vibrating through him to shake him down to his very bones, until he’s not sure if he’ll ever know what it’s like to be calm again.

He does know that this is the last thing he needs right now.

And it’s the second time his withdrawal has hit in front of someone else.

_Not good_ , if he wants to put it lightly. _Majorly fucking bad_ , if he wants to be dramatic.

Might be time to admit he has a real problem.

And sure, while Blake is much less likely to take advantage of the situation to try and kill him the way Mad Jack had, this is still bad for professional, and even more so, _personal_ reasons.

Blake can’t, he _cannot_ , have anything to use against him. He’s already proven willing to turn anything he can use into a weapon to wield against Norman, whether or not it made any logical sense. Hell, he’d tried to use Norman’s status as a profiler against him, which was confusing on several levels. But it leaves Norman with no doubt that if he looks weak at all in front of him, Blake will go for the jugular. He’ll get Norman thrown off the case, maybe even out of the FBI – or maybe he’ll just lord it over Norman’s head for the rest of their lives and blackmail him into doing god knows what.

This would be so much easier if Norman didn’t have any ammo for Blake to use. If his body wasn’t so set on betraying him and giving it all away. If he weren’t a junkie. Worthless. Weak.

“What the hell is your problem?” Blake asks.

Oh no, was Blake talking? Did he ask a question and Norman completely missed it? Did Norman accidentally say any of that out loud?

What had Blake even come in for again? Probably nothing important. Probably just wanted to brag about how Ethan Mars was probably the killer. Nevermind that the evidence was almost entirely circumstantial. Ethan might be guilty of something, but it wasn’t the kidnapping and murder of seven boys and then his own son.

Not like Blake actually cared about that though. Or about the fact that Norman had disappeared from the station for hours and come back soaked, without the car he’d left in. Like he’d even bothered to check where Norman was going so soon after. Not like Norman was pursuing all available leads.

God, what did Blake even _do_ here?

Blake gives him a once over, his stance shifting into something a little more defensive.

It makes Norman realize that he’s balled his own hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

It probably looks like he wants a fight, and maybe he does, even if he’d probably lose, or at the very least take a beating he can’t afford right now; leaving bruises pressed into bruises for an ache he’d regret in the morning.

There’s something appealing about that thought, and the part of him that ate up every word from his psychology professors tries to tell him it’s not logical to want some kind of punishment for the things he knows he’s failed at, but he hasn’t been listening to that voice much lately and it’s far too easy to shut it out.

Instead he wants to listen to the part of him that says he deserves whatever he gets. He’s messy and messed up and there’s a child’s life at stake and all Norman can do is go around in circles and get beat up and get high on Triptocaine and ARI and his own self-righteousness.

He would deserve this, he knows it. Even if he doesn’t have time for it.

What he should do is tell Blake to fuck off. He should turn away and sit back down until he can get a handle on this episode. He should splash cold water on his face and practice deep breathing and come down on his own. He should just call it a day and not touch ARI for the rest of the night.

And he tries, he really tries to do just that, but his body isn’t responding and Blake is staring at him and he doesn’t know what to do but – God – Blake can’t know what this really is, _he can’t_ – and all the higher functions in Norman’s brain spasm and he’s panicking. There’s a dozen logical courses of action for him to pursue, and he opens his mouth to tell Blake to leave, and what comes out is just –

“Get out,” and it sounds cold. Which is an improvement over the shaky way he was sure he would sound, but it’s the wrong thing to say.

It sounds like a threat rather a plea.

And Blake must have been looking for any excuse to escalate this _thing_ , to go further, faster and harder, because he’s suddenly right in Norman’s face. And that’s alarming, sure, but also a bit hot. Maybe.

Still, he’s unprepared for the complete disregard for both his words and his personal space, and now Blake is much too close. It makes Norman rock back on his heels for a second, and he thinks briefly that he’s going to fall over, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing.

But – oh. It makes him think back to being in that psychologist hack’s office with Blake. The way Blake had thrown Dupré around, and Norman had kind of maybe wanted to be manhandled like that, even as he was completely appalled at the absolute abuse of power and authority. And then Blake had turned on him. God, they were so close together they could have kissed. Blake wasn’t necessarily Norman’s usual type, but he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t something there anyway. The tension between them had been so thick Norman had felt it like a physical weight.

It may have made a terrific show of a good cop-bad cop routine, but Norman is reasonably sure Blake would have punched him if they had been alone.

If he’s honest with himself – and he does try to be – if he’s honest with himself, well it was actually pretty hot. In a violent sort of way.

But now they are alone, mostly, in a side room in a noisy station full of people who would 100% side with Blake over Norman. That thought at least gives him pause, makes him feel a little claustrophobic, a little trapped.

“Hey, I asked you a question, what the fuck is your problem?” Blake shoves him back, just a little. A small show of force that does nothing for the vertigo that seizes Norman.

“You,” Norman starts, and it’s supposed to end with a _need to leave_ or a _don’t need to do this_ , but his throat is so dry and he can’t make the words come out right. And now it just sounds like he _wants_ Blake to start something.

He raises his hands, trying to show that he doesn’t mean it, but they bump up against Blake’s shoulders when he steps impossibly closer.

And, oh god, Norman is sending all the wrong signals. He feels like his body is completely independent from his mind, and his body _really_ wants to get fucked up by something other than drugs.

Or possibly just fucked. Who’s to say?

“You wanna say that again?” Blake says. His voice has dropped to something more like a growl, and Norman can feel the vibration in his own chest.

There are a dozen logical courses of action to follow, and he’s losing track of every single one of them. There’s a need in his chest that makes his breath hitch and god he wants _something,_ he needs _something_ to get his head on straight, and if it can’t be Triptocaine and it can’t be ARI then maybe it can be a fight and damn the consequences.

He tries to tell himself to de-escalate the situation.

But instead of following any one of those logical courses of action that are spiralling out of his mind at a rate rapidly approaching that of a tornado, he grabs Blake’s shirt and hauls him in that last inch to kiss him before either of them can think it through.

There’s stunned silence and then a pounding in Norman’s ears.

Oh God, why did he do _that_ of all things?

Maybe he really does want to get punched. But there are easier ways to start a fight.

Blake isn’t responding at all, he hasn’t even moved after an aborted attempt to do something that left his hands paused in the air.

Oh, Norman is fucked. He is definitely, truly, done for. And he’s really done it this time.

At the very least he is now thinking about something other than the incredible urge to snort Triptocaine.

Or he was, at least.

He doesn’t want this terrible kiss to end because he’s decided that, in fact, he really doesn’t want to deal with the consequences. But it’s awkward, and not a very good kiss, and he thinks his face might be on fire from the shame of it all.

‘Self-destructive’ should be his middle name.

This is not how this was supposed to go. This is too far, and he’s fucked up.

He finally pulls back, and it seemed like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, Norman really can’t be sure of the way time works right now.

He really wants to curl up and die, because now he’s done it – but hey, at least the bottom dropping from his stomach isn’t related to his withdrawal anymore.

He makes himself look at Blake; better to know what to expect than to get blindsided… probably.

And Blake looks – angry.

Well, that’s not entirely unexpected, but there’s something about the expression that sets off alarm bells in the back of Norman’s brain.

He’s pretty sure that’s not a good look.

And it’s concerning that Blake hasn’t said anything. Or taken a swing at him.

It’s not good. Blake does not stop and think, in Norman’s experience. Blake _acts_ , but he isn’t doing anything right now, and that’s terrifying.

Norman thinks he might start hyperventilating, and now he’s dizzy again, and _god_ can he please put on ARI and get away from all of this and –

No.

But he needs it so bad and he hates that.

Before Norman has time to fully and logically process how to get out of this situation without a hole opening in reality, Blake fists hands in his jacket and shoves him back, hard, until his back meets the wall, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

_Finally_.

He’s braced for a punch, ready to retaliate and push back, to start something they can actually finish – he is not ready for Blake to suddenly and violently kiss him.

Well, turnabout is fair play.

For a second he blanks – he has no idea how to react, except that he does and this is definitely better than being hit. He grabs hold of Blake’s shirt in return, and kisses back.

_Finally_.

The kiss is shorter than Norman would have liked, but it’s good. It’s hard and insistent in a way that makes his brain short-circuit – the clack of teeth and scratch of Blake’s goatee and the bruising, searing intensity that makes him a little weak in the knees… although that may also be the withdrawal.

He hates himself for the way he wants to chase Blake’s mouth for another kiss.

But Blake isn’t finished, and thank god for that, because Norman is no longer sure what to do with himself, but he’s starting to want more. Blake moves in to press his mouth against Norman’s neck, and he starts loosening Norman’s tie and shirt collar for better access.

It makes Norman tug Blake in closer, and the press of their bodies is grounding, it roots him in the moment in the best way, makes him grip onto Blake’s short hair and haul him up for another kiss.

Blake’s hands slide down to grip his hips in a way Norman knows will bruise, but he can’t bring himself to care. It might be nice to have bruises from something other than a fight.

He can feel Blake growing hard against him, and it makes him groan into Blake’s mouth, spreading his thighs for the knee Blake pushes between them. He's starting to respond, and the pressure of Blake pushing against his own growing erection only makes it better, sends sparks dancing across his vision.

Blake breaks the kiss again in favour of sucking a mark onto Norman’s neck.

“Goddamn I hate you.” Blake bites into the skin there, insistent and sharp. It’s the first thing he’s said since they started, and the sound of his voice is jarring. Really, everything is jarring, it’s all abrupt motion and swinging lights and heat pressing into skin.

“Prove it,” Norman says, and it comes out breathier than he wants it to.

It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but he means it as a challenge and they both know it.

If Norman had to guess, he would say that Blake had probably never run from a challenge before. He was too proud for that, too cocky, and Norman would bet on that. No, Blake would probably blunder through anything for good or ill, too stubborn to admit when he was out of his depth. Norman just hopes he has a clue what he’s doing here.

There’s something in the tightness of Blake’s grip that suggests anger, and the way his fingers press bruises into Norman’s skin with every touch is electrifying. It is kind of nice to know that he hasn’t been the only one bothered by the tension between them.

_This was a long time coming_ , Norman thinks, and he tugs insistently on Blake’s hair, asking for something he can’t quite articulate.

Blake seems to understand well enough, and it’s probably the only thing they’ve agreed on since Norman arrived.

The vibration under his skin is mingling with an ache to touch and to be touched and to feel skin against his own, and he needs it more than he needs the Triptocaine burning a hole in his pocket.

He must make some kind of noise, because Blake pushes him harder into the wall behind him, and it’s so good and it’s not enough all at once. He drags nails down the Blake’s back, and wishes that Blake wasn’t wearing that stupid blue shirt. He pushes back hard.

It seems to take Blake by surprise, and he follows the motion for several steps before stopping. Norman hasn’t detached himself from Blake, and he feels a bit like an octopus, but that might just be because it kind of looks like there’s a school of fish going by them, and he wants to shut his eyes to force them away, but he can’t stop watching Blake’s face, trying to read him and anticipate where this is going. Because he knows where he _wants_ this to go, but he’s not 100% sure Blake is fully onboard.

“What?” Blake asks, and the crease between his brows deepens as he frowns. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Norman says, he lets his mouth curl up at the corner just slightly. “You’re just going too slow.”

Blake scoffs. “I’ll show you slow.”

And it’s such a cliché line that Norman almost rolls his eyes, but he thoroughly approves of the way Blake turns them and manhandles him over to his pitiful desk.

It might not be the best desk, but it withstands the way Blake all but throws him onto it, and for that Norman is grateful to it.

But this is the second time he’s been thrown onto a desk in the last 24 hours, and while this is a much better situation, his back hurts from it and there’s something bristling in the back of his mind, telling him he’s bordering violence and if he isn’t careful he’ll be replaying his earlier fight in Paco’s office whether he wants to or not.

Something sparks in the haze of his mind, something he wants to remember about his encounter with the Origami Killer, but it slips away under the feel of Blake’s hands popping the buttons of his shirt open in an attempt to prove Norman wrong about him being slow.

Well, he can’t complain about that.

He reaches up to pull Blake down closer to him, parting his legs to allow the other man more room. It’s not close enough, but it’ll have to do for now.

There’s a fumbling of fingers on buttons and ties tossed aside, and Normans suit jacket ends up on a stack of boxes in the corner as they both try to get access to skin. But even Norman has enough presence of mind to realize that they are still inside the precinct, and someone might very well come looking for either of them, and it stops them from going too far. Shirts are unbuttoned but stay on, and Norman really hopes the door is still locked.

Blake presses down against him again, pinning him to the desk with a biting kiss, hands skimming lightly – so lightly it surprises Norman – up his chest to thumb over his nipples.

Norman has to wade through several disjointed intrusive thoughts, can’t shut his brain off even when it looks like the edge of the desk is the edge of a cliff, and he wonders if Blake started at the nipples because he’s used to being with women, or if he just likes to play with them?

His mind skips back, making an unwanted comparison of the way Blake presses him into the desk to the way the Origami Killer pushed him into it. It doesn’t feel the same – doesn’t have the same weight behind it, not the same intent, not really, but it’s still rough and a bit too similar to be entirely comfortable.

Blake nips hard at his neck and it brings him back with a jolt and a turn in his stomach. All he wants is to get out of his own head and here he is with the best chance and he can’t even take it.

He reaches up to thread hands in Blake’s hair again, then drags one hand down Blake’s back and around to his chest.

He wants more.

More skin pressed against his, more heat (even though he’s so hot already), more _anything_ , more _everything_.

He thinks maybe Blake registers the change in his body language, supposes it would be hard not to, considering the way his legs grip harder at Blake’s hips and the way his back arches up to follow Blake’s retreating hand.

There’s something large swimming lazily in the deep blue distance, and Norman shuts his eyes tight.

He doesn’t want to see anymore. Not the way Blake is looking at him, or the way the room shimmers with dappled light.

He grinds up against Blake instead, and the friction through his too-tight slacks is still delicious. He wonders if Blake can feel the way his pulse races in his neck. He probably can. There’s an odd thrill in the thought that Blake will attribute that to arousal, and why shouldn’t he? With the way Norman is pressing back against him, and the way he desperately pulls Blake in to him? It’s a logical conclusion, and while Blake has been known to jump the gun on those, Norman thinks this one should appear pretty clear cut. It’s only him who knows that the sweat on his brow and shake in his hands stems from a need rooted deeper than Blake can reach with probing fingers and heated kisses.

All the same, Blake takes his enthusiasm and uses it for his own purposes, reaching down to tug at Norman’s belt, before his own, hands switching back and forth like he can’t decide which of them to undress first.

Something cold presses against the skin of Norman’s abdomen and he opens his eyes with a jolt to find the source. Blake is too busy pulling open his slacks to see Norman’s assessing gaze, but that’s fine, it’s the gold glint that catches his eye. The gold watch no longer covered by the rucked-up sleeve of Blake’s dress shirt.

It’s a nice watch, and Norman has the oddest feeling he’s seen one like it before, but the hand attached to it is reaching inside Blake’s slacks to pull out his heavy cock and honestly Norman doesn’t care so much about the watch anymore. He thinks maybe his eyes go a little wide, can’t bring himself to care what Blake thinks. All he wants is for the bliss-out whiteness and oblivion of orgasm, for the slick of skin on skin and for that cock in his hands and those hands on his cock and –

He shudders at the idea and his hands clench into involuntary fists before he hurries to match Blake, pushing hastily opened pants down his hips enough to draw out his own cock.

There’s a low-grade thrumming at the back of his mind and he can’t place the feeling that rises from that static when he feels Blake take him in his hands, his palms calloused and rough like the textured grip on his Sig P226. It makes Norman think of the violence bursting at Blake’s seams, the man has a hair-trigger temper and absolutely no safety, always ready to go off at the slightest pressure.

Not that Norman would want to de-cock him anyway, and he hates himself for the pun, because he’s finally got his hands on Blake’s cock and – damn. It’s been a long time since he’s touched anyone like this – since he’s felt that hard, heavy weight in his hand and heard the pull of breath that means his partner likes what he’s doing.

It’s somehow so much more satisfying to know it’s Blake – sadistic, violent bastard that he is, Norman wants him all the same.

Must be something wrong with him. Or Blake. Probably both.

But, oh.

When Blake knocks his hands off, takes them and pins them above Norman’s head with one hand and fists their cocks together with the other –

He wants to come apart at the seams.

To be undone.

It’s not very good, objectively. It’s hard for Blake to handle them both with one hand and keep Norman pinned, and Norman grabs the edge of the desk, tries to tell Blake with his body that he’ll stay like this if he lets go. But Blake doesn’t take the hint, and it’s a good thing that it pushes Norman’s buttons in all the right ways.

It’s not very good.

But it’s exactly what he needs.

And it’s almost enough.

There’s been a dozen times when Norman’s had to find that point, say the right thing to defuse Blake’s temper, ease off the trigger before too much damage is done. He hasn’t had to work to set him off, hasn’t had a need before. But now, with Blake pressed between his legs and a hand working them both slick with pre-come – now, he just wants that little push.

He wants Blake to push him over the edge, and he needs it a little harder, a little bit _more_.

He’s already so oversensitive and it feels like every touch is too much and not enough all at once. The rub of fabric on his arms, the scratch of Blake’s chest hair against him, his rough hands and the heat of his body and his weight pressing down against him.

He feels like he’s on the edge of a Triptocaine high and it’s all he can do not to beg for it. He’d never beg for it. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He might if he thought it would do any good.

He knows it wouldn’t with Blake though. Even if the shame of begging might get him just as high on another day.

Man, he’s fucked up.

He needs Blake to tell him how much he hates him. How little he means to him. How wrong he is. What a failure he is.

Anything and everything he’s messed up on since he first set foot in this goddamn city and felt the rain soak him through to the bone.

He wants to be pulled apart from the inside.

But he can’t have any of those things, and so instead he has to make do with what he can. To push into the tightness of Blake’s fist and to beg not with his mouth but with his body. He pulls Blake in tighter with his thighs and it unbalances him a little, makes him finally let go of Norman’s wrists to brace himself on the desk. Norman breaks his promise and sneaks a hand down around their cocks to work opposite to Blake’s rough pattern, and that’s so much better, makes his mind stutter as it tries to keep track of what’s happening.

It isn't long before Blake makes a guttural noise and curses, and then he’s coming over their hands and Norman’s chest. And finally it's enough. It pushes Norman over the edge. Knowing he's done something right for once, feeling the way Blake's hand squeezes when he works himself through his own orgasm - it's just a little too tight, which means it's perfect, and he comes hard, harder than he has in a long time. He thumps his head down on the desk harder than he means to, his whole body shuddering beneath the white-hot pleasure that finally makes him forget about the high he wanted so badly.

He’s dimly aware of the fact that Blake has placed a hand over his mouth, and that probably means he made some terribly embarrassing, and worse _loud_ , noise when he came. But hey, who was really gonna come looking for Norman anyway? Nobody’s really bothered to say two words to him since he arrived. He hasn’t felt so unwelcome since he did that cannibal case in Detroit.

“Fuck you’re loud,” Blake says.

He’s boneless against Norman, still gathering himself back together, and the sweat and heat that built up between them cools slowly. It feels… a lot less good than it did a second ago. Norman is pretty sure there’s dust stuck to both of them, and he suddenly feels a _lot_ more exposed than he did earlier.

He somehow manages to feel both better and worse. Sure, he hit the high he wanted, and it was good, and it was marginally less self-destructive than it could have been. And sure, he’s no longer seeing things that shouldn’t be there. But now he feels hung over and wretched; his limbs are still shaky and weak, but now they ache with overuse and pressure pushed into bruises that will be darker than if they’d only been from the Origami Killer pushing him down.

When Blake finally peels himself off of Norman to right his clothing, Norman can feel shame creep up and settle in beneath his ribs.

They should _not_ have done this. There wasn’t time for it. There’s no time to be human when lives are on the line, and it’s something Norman hasn’t let himself be for a long time. Not in any way that matters.

It’s not like he can change the past though. He makes himself sit up, pull himself back together physically if not mentally. He sacrifices his tie to clean the cum from his chest and buttons his shirt back up, tucking himself back into his pants and working them back up his hips as much as possible while still sitting on the desk. He’s not sure he can stand on his own yet.

Blake is already dressed again, and clearly only waiting for Norman to be presentable enough to open the door. He clears his throat. “I’d be lying if I said I was expecting that.”

“Yeah,” Norman says.

“But it’s not gonna happen again,” Blake says.

Norman nods. That’s fine. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

“This doesn’t change anything.”

"Good."

Blake considers him for a moment. “You should get back to your hotel. You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Norman says.

Blake looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. Instead he leaves, and lets the door bang shut on the way out.

No doubt he’s off to file some criminally inaccurate paperwork about the Origami Killer. Or maybe he’s going to go home and drink himself to sleep. He seems like the type. Although maybe that’s an unfair judgment, somehow Blake got to the rank of Lieutenant and was put in charge of a serial killer, so he can’t be the worst out there.

It takes Norman a long time to pull his thoughts back into something coherent.

Blake’s right. He should just go back to his hotel. They’re running out of time and if he doesn’t get a good night’s sleep he won’t be any good to Shaun Mars. He’s close to solving this, he’s sure of it. No way it was a coincidence he ran into the killer himself. He must be closing in.

But that’s a problem for Tomorrow-Norman, who can think straight and walk without his back aching. Probably.

He leaves the vial of Triptocaine he’d been craving in the drawer of the desk. It’s a futile gesture – he has more at the hotel – but it’s the thought behind it that counts. _Don’t fuck up_ , in not so many words. He wishes he could leave ARI there too, but he needs it to finish the case.

Still, as long as he doesn’t overindulge.

How hard can that be?

Sure, he wants to run away and hide from reality, but he’s a bit too tired for that right now, and the ache in his hips is a good reminder that there are other ways to escape.

He steps out into the rain and lets it soak him through again. It’s nice in a way. Makes him feel clean. But it’s cold too. And it reminds him that there’s a little boy in a hole somewhere, trying not to drown.

He’s running out of time.

And Norman’s running out of chances.

There's something hanging at the back of his mind, and he makes a mental note to go over the evidence he collected in Paco's office in more detail in the morning. There has to be something there that he missed. He doubts he'll have trouble remembering that, it's sticking to him in the worst possible way.

It's honestly a toss up as to whether he'll be dreaming about Blake or the Origami Killer tonight.


End file.
